Brenda Warren
Your sex yields against my palate,
Soul subtly transposed underneath the skin.
However, carefully we tend our scars
Anguish still mixes in and all that
Was sacred becomes taboo
When voiced by another man.
–
I scrape a fire from the toasted ashes
The screams within coagulating
At your freshly applied visage
Your eyes are the only hint I need,
Tomorrow will come but not for me.
–
In each chamber a hole just big enough
For a man’s fingers to slip inside.
A dribble of poison, a white dress
Liaison-red after applications lingers
In the nuances of my ruined flesh.
mindlovemisery 